Second Place
by Gerri
Summary: There's a reason why Lucius Malfoy doesn't love his only son as much as he should.


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Disclaimer: Anything that you recognise from the books doesn't belong to me. Pity though, because if I owned Draco Malfoy, he wouldn't be playing second fiddle to Potter all the time. :)

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Second Place

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House-elves have long lives, you know.

And as a house-elf of the Malfoy family, I've seen and known far more things than any house-elf could ever wish to see or know.

Malfoy Manor is always dark and cold…quiet too.

Unless Young Master Malfoy is home from Hogwarts. Young Master has tantrums, but they are lessening as he grows older.

But Malfoy Manor was not always so dark…or cold. Or quiet.

There was a period of time when this house actually seemed like a home.

When Master Malfoy cared more about his wife and only son than the Dark Lord that this family serves.

When there was frequently laughter about the house.

When Master Malfoy seemed more like a father.

When this house was bright…warm…lively.

He arrived late in August, with blond hair and light blue eyes.

And Mistress Malfoy named him Damien.

Damien Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

He brought joy into his parents' lives…and into this house…

***

Damien Malfoy was a quiet child, one whose gentle features almost never altered from their usual calm, politely curious expression.

When he was amused, the most change that was visible in his visage was a faint smile and a brighter sparkle in his bright blue eyes. It was something very unique to Damien, that strange way in which he smiled with his eyes.

And when Lucius had tried to introduce the family's dark heritage to the boy, he had met with a very surprising situation.

The then three-year-old's reaction to the Unforgivable Curses was, "That's not right, Father."

It wasn't a question, it wasn't a protest; it was a simple statement.

"I'm teaching you how to do it," Lucius told the small boy. "My father taught me when I was your age."

"It's not right." Even when he disapproved of such a thing, the only expression on his face was only perceptible in his eyes.

Light, cheerful blue had turned a shade darker, troubled.

Lucius loved his son; he loved the boy because his own father had never loved him, and he knew the pain of not knowing love.

And out of love, he never taught Damien the Dark Arts again. A mistake on his part.

But the greatest mistake of all was that a child of Damien's nature should never have been born a Malfoy.

His eleventh birthday came and went, and two weeks later, he was enrolled at Hogwarts.

***

"Malfoy, Damien."

The Great Hall fell into a hush; the Malfoy name commanded respect, after all.

In Damien's opinion, "respect" meant hate and fear.

He walked up the steps, eased himself onto the stool, and placed the hat on his head.

Silence.

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"Most curious," the Hat suddenly drawled. _"A Malfoy by name, yes, but a Gryffindor by heart." _There was a pause._ "You know that you have two houses from which to choose, don't you?"_

'Yes,' he thought silently.

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"Where do you want to go?"

Damien paused to think.

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'Put me where I'd make my father proud.'

"Very well."

"Slytherin!"

The Slytherin table rose to welcome its new member.

Slytherin it was.

And make his father proud, he did.

From his first year, he topped the level in every exam, and made the Slytherin Quidditch team in his second year as Seeker. Later, he became captain as well; Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup for three years in a row during the time he was on the team. Arguably the most industrious Slytherin in at least 2 centuries, he also helped Slytherin win the House Cup every year. His last outstanding achievement before his sixteenth birthday was becoming a prefect.

And then his sixteenth birthday came, along with a letter stating that he was to take his place as Head Boy when his seventh year started in two weeks' time.

He might have been a fine example of a Head Boy, if there hadn't been another event scheduled on the night of his sixteenth birthday.

***

"_I_ will decide for _myself_ if the boy is ready or not!" the voice of Fear hissed forth from beneath the lowered hood. "Now bring him before me before I make an example of your entire family."

Lucius froze.

He regarded the circle of Death Eaters around him; shadows from the fire in the middle of the circle dancing on their cloaks like spectral hell spawn.

Reluctantly, he turned.

"Damien-"

"No, Father."

"Damien, please-"

"It's not right."

Those three whispered words brought back memories…thirteen years ago. Had it really been sixteen years to this day since Damien was born?

This boy had been brought up like no other Malfoy child; only because he was the antithesis of his family name.

"Think of the family, Damien. Your mother…"

Silence.

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'Think of the greater good…'

Slowly, Damien stepped into the circle of Death Eaters. And all present saw why he could be none other than Lucius Malfoy's son.

White-blond hair gleamed like silver in the firelight; by the age of sixteen, his hair was entirely too light a colour to be considered truly blond, and there was a considerable amount of silver hair among the light blond strands. His physical appearance already held the promise that he would take after his father, all his hair turning an ethereal silvery-white before he reached the age of twenty.

His eyes, his strangely expressive eyes, usually a light blue colour, were now livid.

Whether their frigid hue was caused by anger or by fear, Lucius Malfoy did not know.

And he never found out.

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'The needs of the majority are always favoured…'

Damien stepped past his father, who was now bowed before the Dark Lord.

The son halted his steps before the hooded figure, but made no move to emulate his father's submissive posture.

Silence.

"I suppose you're right…" the Dark Lord hissed lazily as he surveyed the younger Malfoy. "He isn't ready."

Lucius' breath caught in his throat at the sudden relief. Of all people, he knew best of all that Damien was never meant to serve the Dark Lord.

"Young but powerful for his age, yes," Voldemort continued to drawl, "but _no_, **_not ready_**…"

Lucius' head snapped up at the mocking tone in Voldemort's voice.

"My Lord-" he began, panicking. He started forward in fear; three other Death Eaters blocked his way. 

Separated father from son.

"Useless to my cause," Voldemort sneered.

And then he said the two words that Lucius Malfoy never dreamed that he would hear directed at one of his own:

"Avada-"

**__**

"Father!!"

'…needs of the individual sacrificed for the greater good…'

And the Malfoy family's last redeeming light fell to darkness.

***

Lucius swore that he would never have another child.

He would spare himself the endless anxiety of a watchful parent as the child grew up, save the energy needed to keep the child company…and spare himself the pain if the child was destined to be wrenched from his grasp.

He hardened his heart against the world, immersed himself in his work and worked constantly at getting back into Voldemort's good books; as much as he hated the Dark Arts for Damien's death, he had nothing else to live for. And he did not turn to the Light, but instead, hated it, for Damien had been innocent, but no, it hadn't saved him.

He tidied Damien's room, locked it, and performed an enchantment on it that hid the room. No matter how many times one walked the corridor outside Damien's room, or how many doors one opened on their journey down that corridor, no one ever found the room of the late Damien Malfoy.

He lost all hope in love; he had loved Damien, but now, he perceived that perhaps, it was because of his love that Damien suffered the fate that he did. He had given Damien love because his own father had deprived him of it, and he had not wanted his child to grow up not knowing the emotion that he had craved all his childhood. But perhaps…Lucius' father had been right to deprive him of love.

It caused too much trouble. And entirely too much pain.

If he never had another child, he would also save another child the hell of growing up in the traditional Malfoy way.

But he made another mistake.

He had allowed Narcissa to get him drunk that night…

In the following nine months after that night, Lucius branded the child within her just that: "a mistake".

And the child was called "the mistake" until he was born.

***

"He looks just like you," Narcissa whispered as she rocked her newborn son.

Lucius didn't think so.

The child reminded him too much of Damien.

Blond hair.

Blue eyes.

Blue eyes that sparkled just as brightly as Damien's had.

But he could no longer think of the child as a "mistake" either.

His second son had the same childlike beauty that Damien possessed; immature charm that robbed the mind of all insulting vocabulary.

"I named Damien," whispered Narcissa. "Now you can name him."

She held the boy up to him, and he took him into his arms.

Looking at the baby, he remembered the mistakes that he had made with Damien.

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He had made Damien…soft.

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He had made Damien…weak.

And then he made up his mind that this child would be strong.

Strong, untouched, and unspoiled by love.

"Draco," he pronounced finally. "His name will be Draco."

***

As little as three years later, Lucius regretted giving Draco that name.

Draco was just as, if not, more, fiery than his namesake.

Damien and Draco were complete opposites

Damien was placid; Draco was unpredictable, Damien never voiced his opinions; Draco frequently let fly exactly what he thought of anyone and anything, and in contrast, Draco scowled just as often as Damien had smiled.

Lucius had kept his distance from the boy, preventing any love from growing between them; Draco was simply aware that the man whom he acknowledged as "Father" was an aloof, all knowing and dominating presence whom he would see at least once in three days if he was lucky.

And it was because of this distance between father and son that Lucius only saw the greatest difference between his two sons when he entered his study one day, when Draco was six.

***

He frowned.

The door to his study was ajar.

Stepping into his room, he closed the door behind him silently and noted that the balcony door was open as well. A breeze blew in, turning the pages of a book left open on the desk.

Walking towards the balcony, he paused to glance at it.

Dark Magic.

The book was filled with spells on the Dark Arts.

A small burst of laughter came from the balcony.

Lucius stepped around the desk and out onto the balcony. Immediately, he spotted the head of light blond on his left.

Draco was laughing at two squirrels in a tree, fighting over…something.

Only when the rodents had disappeared did Lucius make his presence known.

"Draco."

The small figure spun around so fast, he was almost a blur; his wide eyes stared, flashing with anxiety.

"Fa-Father."

Lucius made a beckoning motion with his hand, and the book flew off his desk and into his grasp.

"I told you not to enter my study, Draco."

"I wanted something to read."

"Oh, I see. This?" he held up the book. "Your books on basic wizardry were too simple for you, I suppose?"

"Mother said that you'd approve if I studied the Dark Arts."

"I would approve if you obeyed my instructions. For example, keeping out of my study."

Silence.

Something flashed across Draco's face for a mere fraction of a second; something between hurt and embarrassment and disappointment; or perhaps it was a mixture of all three.

The father studied his son briefly.

Draco was small for his six years of age; his head was barely above his father's knees. Damien had been a head taller at his age. The rich golden colour that his hair had had when he was three was now losing its lustre, gradually turning silver-blond. And those large, perfectly-shaped blue eyes…

This was the reason why it was so painful to look at Draco. Physically, he was every inch a smaller version of Damien, but it was so frustrating; each time, he saw what looked to him like Damien, but then his mind would remind him; no, this was not Damien.

Draco knew nothing of his deceased older brother, but everytime he so much as glanced at his son, Lucius had to quell the strong desire to fall upon his knees before this image of his dead son, and beg him to lead him out of the hell that he'd dug himself into when he'd lost his Damien.

Something glistened in Draco's right eye.

So much like the sparkle in Damien's blue eyes...

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'No. Wait. Something's different here-'

And right then, for the first time, Lucius noticed that Draco's eyes were a distant cry from the blue that they had been when he was born.

Their colour had lightened to the extent that they were now silvery-grey.

And then he realised something else.

If the azure of Damien's eyes was what had allowed him to convey his emotions so effectively, then perhaps…this silver-grey sheen over Draco's irises was what seemed to make him so unreadable. Almost like the silver tint was a leaden door that shut the boy's emotions in-

"I'm sorry, Father," Draco suddenly spoke. "I'll leave now."

***

The one great difference: Damien refused to touch the Darks Arts. Draco had taken to learning them on his own.

But Draco's words had rung in Lucius' head for days after the study incident.

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'Mother said that you'd approve…'

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said as he paced before Narcissa's chair in their bedroom. "You told Draco to study the Dark Arts."

"No," she replied calmly.

"Then why was he in my study, reading-"

"I encouraged him."

Silence.

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'Encouraged?'

"You mean he _wanted_ to learn the Dark Arts?"

"Yes." She paused. "He's very different from Damien; you can't always think of him as just another version of Damien. Draco is his own person."

Lucius stared at her.

"Don't speak of him."

Narcissa gazed at him serenely.

"Let Draco learn. At least…if the Dark Lord comes for our child again…we will not lose another son."

Lucius strode out onto the balcony, letting the frosty morning air nip at his skin.

"Fine. Let him learn."

"Is there something else that you initially wanted to ask me?"

Silence.

"He said you told him that I'd approve."

"Yes," she nodded. "Draco wants your attention, you know. Your approval."

***

That had been a problem.

In his opinion, the less he saw of Draco, the better; he wouldn't be plagued by the twisted features of his dead son, the usually peaceful face contorted into a mask of fear and pain and shock and anguish and-

No.

He could _not_ face Draco everyday with _that_ going through his mind.

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'Draco wants your attention, you know.'

There had to be a way to give the boy the attention that he sought without them having to come face to face with each other.

And the solution that he came up with, no one was really able to tell if it made things better or worse.

His solution was simply to give Draco everything that he wanted.

Lucius felt that he was giving the attention, and for his part, he didn't have to see the boy to provide that attention.

But no one really knew if this was the kind of attention that Draco wanted. And in the long term, Lucius' "attention" yielded results.

Draco became spoilt.

Perhaps he had given up asking for the attention that he really wanted, and learnt to be thankful for the attention that he was receiving.

Or maybe he had realised that the love that he wanted was the one thing that his father could not give him.

Over time, Draco would console himself, telling himself that perhaps the way his father showered him with material wants was just his way of showing his affection for his son. But that would never stop Draco from seeking attention, or demanding love from his father.

Even if he didn't really know what love was.

***

Lucius rapped lightly on the door before entering.

Narcissa looked up from where she was seated by their son's bed and gave him a slight smile.

"What happened?" he asked. "One of the house-elves mentioned that he wasn't well."

"Nothing serious, dear. He was playing on that toy broomstick yesterday, in the rain." She paused to brush aside as lock of hair from Draco's forehead. "Just a fever. The medicine will clear it up by tomorrow."

"Doesn't he know better than to play in the rain?" he asked as he sat down on the other side of the four-poster.

"He's seven years old; he didn't know that getting drenched in a light shower meant that he'd be in bed with a fever. After all, he doesn't fall sick every time he takes a bath."

"Well, he should know that he doesn't bathe in _cold _water."

"Never mind," she sighed. "I'm just going to step outside for a while."

Before he could object, she disapparated.

Leaving him with their son.

Lucius watched him sleep, watched as he turned onto his side, and watched as he mumbled something incoherent.

And then he lifted his hand, and reached out-

His fingers brushed Draco's warm cheek.

Seven years. For the first time in the seven years since Draco was born, he touched his son.

Even on the day of his birth, he had merely touched the blankets swaddling the infant, not the child himself.

Draco shifted in his feverish sleep, probably sensing the unfamiliar touch but not knowing what to make of it.

Lucius, against what he believed to be his better judgement, moved closer to his son.

He smoothed away some of the light blond hair away from the pale face, stopping only when his fingers grazed Draco's forehead, which was hot to the touch.

"I'm sorry, you know," he whispered to the sleeping boy. "I'm sorry that I can't bring myself to love you. I loved someone else once; someone so much like you, and that person wasn't spared…"

He paused.

"This is for your good as much as it is for mine. The Dark Arts contain no mercy, Draco; you should know that by now. If perhaps…one of us falls to the wrath of the Dark Lord in the future, the loss of me will not pain you as much as the loss of someone else did me. I need you to understand why I won't let you love me, Draco."

Another pause.

"I wasn't the one who began the practise of the Dark Arts in this family, and it isn't easy to leave this practice. I swore eight years ago that I'd never have a child…again. I would spare another child from being born a Malfoy and raised in the way that my father raised me…spare that child a life so cold and devoid of feelings other than hate and anger and jealousy… But you…happened.

"You're seven years old already, Draco…surely you understand what it means to be a Malfoy by now? It means a life with almost no good emotions, because the presence of that would undo you…with all the evil that you'll be forced to do sooner or later in your life."

Silence.

"I'm sorry that this is the only life that I can give you."

He kissed Draco's cheek before standing to leave the room.

As he was closing the door he stopped suddenly, continuing to watch his son, now framed in the space between the halfway-closed door and its frame.

Tomorrow morning, Draco would wake, and be completely unaware of what he had said to him tonight. If Lucius could help it, Draco would also never know that Lucius did love him. It was for Draco's good after all.

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'If only you had been born earlier…' he thought. _'If you had been born first, I would have given you all the love that you wanted…_

'I would have loved you.

'If only you had been born first.'

And then the harsh reality of what his own father had once said when he was much younger sank in.

"Strive for the best, Lucius. A Malfoy deserves nothing less, and bear in mind that there is no glory in for the one in second place. No one remembers the one in second place."  


And it was a pity that that was Draco's place.

Second after Damien.

Second to Damien in both his parents' hearts.

Second best.

Only ever _second_ place.

End


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